Entropy
by suicidalunicorn97
Summary: After the events of the Final Problem, Mycroft's eating disorder resurfaces. (Spoilers for series 4 of Sherlock)
1. Fallout (Control)

_ENTROPY:_

 _2\. gradual decline into disorder._

 _synonyms: deterioration, crumbling, decline, breaking down, collapse, chaos._

* * *

Mycroft Holmes went home alone.

It was nothing new, of course. He had always been alone. Inspector Lestrade had accompanied him to his house, probably at the insistence of Sherlock. But Mycroft waved him off, maintaining that he simply needed some sleep and he would be good as new.

The house was quiet. Normally the silence was soothing, but tonight it felt heavy.

Oh, what a mess today had been. If he was being honest with himself, the last few years had been a disaster. A catastrophe of his own creation. Moriarty and Eurus, the perfect storm. And he had brought them together. So many people had died as a result of his carelessness...

He almost died today. He should have. It would be better than dealing with the fallout of everything.

* * *

Their parents were understandably furious to discover Mycroft's deception. It was a bittersweet moment when they found out their only daughter was alive, but was so damaged. She had retreated into herself, withdrawing from the world. Honestly he didn't blame her.

The only person who could get through to Eurus was Sherlock. He played his violin for her, and she would play hers back to him. It was a communication, of sorts. Always a sad song. As he listened to them, he felt it tug at his heart. Even Eurus had someone now.

Despite claiming to be a sociopath, Sherlock had always managed to attract people. He was like a magnet for the damaged, and people _liked_ him. God knows why.

 _Caring is not an advantage._

The worst was over. Eurus was back in Sherrinford, secure this time. Sherlock and John Watson were back at 221B Baker Street, solving crimes as usual. His brother was drug-free, and relatively happy. There was no real threat to national security.

All things considered, life was fairly good.

But an empty feeling remained. Again, this was nothing new. However it felt more pronounced than before. Ever since Sherlock almost pulled that trigger, Mycroft had been left wondering what his life was worth. Things had spun out of control so fast.

 _Who would miss him when he was gone? What would people remember? Had he made a difference in the world?_

Questions he'd never considered before, questions he didn't know the answers to. Questions he didn't want to think about.

And the _guilt_. His parents brought up an excellent point. Had he done his best with Eurus? Definitely not. Everything that had happened was his fault.

Mycroft found himself slipping into old habits.

 _Skipping meals._

 _Obsessively working out._

 _Losing weight._

For the record, it wasn't about the weight. He had been a pudgy child, but now he was thin and lean. All muscle and sharp angles. He knew he didn't need to slim down at all, but everything just felt so _heavy_ lately. He needed something to control.

It was about the control.

He would stop before things got to far. And besides, it wasn't like he'd stopped eating altogether. He was just eating less. It was perfectly safe.

At least, that's what he told himself.

* * *

 **This isn't a one-shot, it's gonna have multiple chapters. I've already got some ideas, I just need time to write haha. Thanks for reading, drop a review if you liked it. Thanks :)**


	2. Guilt Trip to Sherrinford

_**Two months later**_

* * *

Mycroft was ignoring his mother.

In his defense, he was a very busy man. He had meetings to attend, terrorists to catch...and of course he needed time to work out. He would run on his treadmill every chance he got.

Every voicemail his mother left was the same.

 _"You never visit Eurus."_

 _"Your father and I are going to see your sister today. You should come with us."_

 _"Sherlock is playing his violin for her again, you don't want to miss that."_

 _"For God's sakes, Mikey. She is your_ _ **sister,**_ _don't you care at all?"_

Of course he cared. Which is why he didn't want to see her. He didn't want to see the empty shell she had become. (Although it was arguably better than her psychotic serial killer persona.) He didn't want to listen to the violins tear at his heart strings. He couldn't stand to see the grief on his parents' faces. And the disdain on Sherlock's.

After eighteen missed calls, he finally rang his mother back and told her he would visit Eurus when he had time. She was disappointed it wouldn't be together as a family, but when he insisted that the security of the free world depended on his presence here, she backed off a bit.

Later that day, his cell rang again. He was on the treadmill, but when he saw the caller ID he immediately turned it off and answered his phone.

Sherlock rarely ever called him, and when he did, it was never good.

"Sherlock, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

" _Why are you out of breath?"_ His brother never was one for formalities.

"Filing."

" _Either I've caught you in a compromising position, or you're working out again. I favour the latter."_

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "What do you want?"

" _You've upset Mummy."_

"Oh, for Christ's sake..."

 _"You're the one who condemned Eurus to Sherrinford in the first place, the least you could do is visit her."_ Sherlock's tone was clipped and angry, which was surprising.

Mycroft knew that his brother was upset with him, but when they had informed their parents that Eurus was alive, the youngest Holmes had stood up for him; saying that he had done his best.

Obviously something had changed. Maybe Sherlock had been spending too much time with their over-sentimental mother. Or maybe seeing Eurus on a regular basis was doing something to him...

"I told Mummy I would visit her when I have time. Goodbye, Sherlock." Mycroft snapped, hanging up.

He sighed, fidgeting with his phone. He felt the familiar twinge of guilt as he realized Sherlock was right. He would make time to visit Eurus tomorrow.

Mycroft ran three more miles, and he didn't eat that day.

* * *

It was early the next morning, and he was on a boat to Sherrinford. He had cleared his schedule for the day, as he was unsure how long he would be gone.

As he set foot upon the island, he had the thought, _What am I doing here?_

There was honestly no point. Although he could play the violin, he was not nearly as talented as Sherlock. Eurus would not acknowledge his presence. If anything, it would upset her. She probably hated him.

They reached her cell, and Mycroft swallowed his uncertainty. Eurus had a knack for sensing vulnerability and preying upon it.

The guards left them alone, and he stared through the glass at his sister. To his relief she looked better than he had imagined in his guilty mind. She did not appear lost or lonely or sad. She simply sat in the middle of the room, gazing at the floor thoughtfully.

She looked up, and a smile crossed her face. It was not a sadistic grin, like when she had locked him in her old cell. It was a sort of absent, dazed smile, and she almost appeared...high.

"She certainly looks insane, doesn't she?" A voice behind him caused Mycroft to spin around.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" He frowned.

"I knew you'd come." His brother stated. His eyes narrowed. "Are you ill?"

"I'm fine." Mycroft dismissed. "Is she being drugged?"

"No." Sherlock replied. "She is simply lost in her own little world."

"She looks slightly improved from last time I was here."

"Yes. But you, on the other hand..." Sherlock stepped closer, gaze sweeping over his brother's thin frame. He had that look in his eyes, the one Mycroft knew too well. He was on the cusp of some grand deduction, close to figuring out big brother's secrets. "Something's wrong."

"It's none of your concern." Mycroft quickly changed the subject. "What is the point of visiting Eurus when she's like this? It's like she doesn't even know we're here."

"We just need to wake her up, that's all." Sherlock said, reaching for his violin much to Mycroft's relief.

He started to play, and this time the tune wasn't sad or mournful. It was by no means happy, but it was definitely an improvement.

Mycroft watched in awe as Eurus picked up her own violin and began to play with Sherlock. It was the sound of a lazy Sunday. Of clouds gathering for a gentle summer rain.

This went on for what seemed like hours, and finally the song ended, the last notes of the violins fading into quiet vibrations.

"Beautiful." Mycroft said quietly.

"Do you see now why Mummy wanted you to come?"

"Don't spoil the moment, brother mine." Mycroft rapped on the door to let the guards know they were ready to leave. "I suppose we'll be riding back on the same boat?"

"Of course," Sherlock answered, obviously happy to have more time to figure out what was wrong with Mycroft.

"Lovely," He mumbled.


	3. I'm (not) Okay, I Promise

As they approached the loading dock, Mycroft saw John Watson standing on the deck, shoulders hunched and collar turned up to protect against the ocean spray.

"I should've known you'd bring your pet." He raised an eyebrow. "Why did he not accompany you in?"

"Eurus makes him uncomfortable." Sherlock explained. "She did toss him in a well and try to drown him."

"Yes, that is understandable."

They boarded the boat, and Mycroft was reminded to find a place in Sherrinford's budget for a new vessel. They were huddled below deck to escape the harsh wind, and he was uncomfortably close to his brother and Dr. Watson in the small space.

"So, how've you been, Mycroft?" The shorter man asked, trying to make conversation.

"Fine. Busy as ever."

"Are you alright? You look a bit pale. And have you lost weight?"

Mycroft shifted anxiously, feeling rather trapped. "I'm fine." He repeated.

"Brother mine, you know it's bad when even John notices."

Watson glared at Sherlock, but turned his attention back to Mycroft. "Are you sure? You should probably get in to see a doctor-"

"I said I was fine!" He snapped, much to the surprise of Watson, who had only ever seen him calm and collected.

"Interesting..." Sherlock mused, staring at Mycroft with intense suspicion in his eyes. He looked more intrigued than concerned. Like his brother was a new puzzle to solve. "Is it Cancer?"

"No," Mycroft sighed in exasperation, willing the boat to go faster.

"How would you know? you haven't been to a doctor."

"Then why would you ask if you _know_ I haven't been to the doctor?"

Watson interrupted. "How did you kn-"

"It's Mycroft, he doesn't go to the doctor unless he's dying."

"Runs in the family then, does it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, check his pulse."

Watson glared at Sherlock and threw a sideways glance at Mycroft, as if afraid to touch him. "Why don't you take his pulse? You're his brother."

"And you're a doctor."

"And I'm fine." Mycroft reiterated, folding his arms across his chest to prevent either one of them from taking his pulse. He could feel his brother's eyes on him; gathering mental evidence, assessing the visible symptoms...

Ah, he recognized that look in Sherlock's eyes...he'd figured something out. But instead of the usual smugness that accompanied a deduction, there was something else...Fear? Concern? No, Mycroft must be mistaken. It wasn't like his brother to worry about anyone but himself. And John Watson, of course.

"Would you like to go to breakfast with us?"

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry."

"Oh, I insist. John's treat."

Apart from a slightly annoyed huff, Watson did not protest. Either his manners were impeccable, or he trusted Sherlock's methods completely. Why anyone would do such a thing escaped Mycroft's understanding. His younger brother was not the most responsible person.

"I'm afraid I have a very tight schedule. Besides, I had a large breakfast. I'm really not hungry." He lied.

"What did you have for breakfast?"

It was a simple enough question, one that Mycroft should've been able to answer easily. But he hesitated, and immediately knew that Sherlock had deduced his secret.

Luckily for him, the boat reached the shore before his brother could make an accusation. "As lovely as this conversation has been, I must get to a meeting. Goodbye Sherlock, Dr. Watson." He brushed past them and quickly climbed above deck. There was a car waiting for him, and he briskly walked to it, keenly aware of the younger Holmes' eyes drilling holes into his back.

Once he was safely behind tinted windows, Mycroft rubbed his temples. He didn't actually have meeting for the rest of the day, but he needed something to take his mind off things. Maybe he would go for a hike. Run a few miles.

* * *

 **I'm really sorry about the short chapters but my laptop keeps dying! I really need to get a new one, but I can't afford it. Ugh. Thanks for reading, I'll update soon! Please leave a review if you liked it :)**


	4. There Are Easier Ways to Kill Yourself

**I'm so sorry it's been so long since my last update! I've been in the middle of a depressive episode, not fun stuff. Anyway, please leave a review if you like it, reading them always helps me get motivation to write more. Thanks!**

 **(Also I'm sorry if I offend anyone with the language, I'm American and not familiar with British slang)**

* * *

Watson called a cab as Sherlock stared after his brother's retreating car with narrowed eyes.

"Well?"

"What?"

"Let's hear it. What's wrong with him?"

"Mycroft has decided to stop eating again, it seems."

John blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"I'll take your word for it. Why would he do that?"

"When we were children, he was a bit on the heavy side. But he slimmed down, and I see no reason for him to continue starving himself." Sherlock frowned.

John looked surprised. "Christ, I never would've guessed. Mycroft just doesn't seem the type."

"Type...?" Sherlock asked absently.

"To have an eating disorder."

"He doesn't have an eating disorder." Sherlock said sharply. "He's just on a diet, that's all. A stupid, extreme diet."

"That's um, kind of what an eating disorder is. You said it yourself, he's starving himself."

Sherlock shook his head. _Eating Disorder_ sounded so serious. Worrisome. The kind of thing one might need professional help for. And Mycroft didn't need anyone's help.

"What are you going to do about it?"

He shrugged. "Nothing."

"Nothing? Sherlock, he's-"

"Got it under control, I'm sure."

John didn't look convinced. "Eating disorders are serious. _Dangerous_."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. But we've already established that my brother does _not_ have an eating disorder." Sherlock snapped. "He's on a diet, and he'll stop before it goes too far. This is _Mycroft_ we're talking about. He basically runs the British government. As he's constantly reminding me, he's the smart one. I'm sure he knows the effects starvation has on the body and mind. He wouldn't let himself deteriorate like that."

John sighed with exasperation. "Fine, whatever you say."

* * *

 _Two months later_

Mycroft never thought he'd let it go too far. But today as he stood in front of the mirror, he didn't recognize the man staring back at him. Bony collarbones, sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones...He looked like a skeleton. He needed to stop.

But he couldn't.

Even the thought of food made him feel sick.

Still, he couldn't survive like this. Soon his body would begin to shut down. He needed to eat more, no matter how hard it was.

He took a look in his fridge and almost laughed. How long had it been since he'd gone shopping? Three weeks? Maybe more...

So he ate his usual four slices of apple and headed out the door.

* * *

Mycroft sighed. He was beginning to think he should have stayed home today. He didn't have the energy to deal with the drama unfolding around him. One of his assistants had been murdered during the night. He had been the one to find the man's body, cold and lifeless outside his office door. Pity, the man had only just started last week.

Mycroft called the police, but after only a few moments of examining the body he determined that the man had been killed by his wife, who had come here to confront him about having an affair. Or was it the mistress who'd killed him? The details were a bit fuzzy...or maybe it was just his own brain, starting to feel the effects of malnourishment.

Not a good sign.

Still, he informed Lestrade that they would want to pick up both the wife and mistress for questioning.

He sat at his desk, trying to get some work done despite the racket the crime scene team was making. True, a man was dead. But Mycroft still had a country to run.

"Excuse me, sir? There's someone here to see you," One of the young officers stood in his doorway. "He says he's your brother."

Mycroft sighed. "Tell him I'm busy, and that his presence would be more beneficial at the police station helping with the investigation."

"Investigation? The case is closed. They arrested the mistress, no thanks to you." Sherlock brushed past the officer.

"Hey, you can't just-"

"It's fine." Mycroft waved the man off, shutting the door. Whatever his brother had come here to say, he didn't want it to be heard by everyone in the building. Sherlock never came to see him at work, and he could tell something was going on. The younger Holmes seemed anxious.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock? And where's your pet?"

"John? He's a doctor, you know. He's got a day job." He replied icily, not answering the question.

"Can I do something for you? I'm quite busy." Mycroft did his best to appear disinterested, leafing through papers on his desk.

"You don't make mistakes."

Mycroft looked up, confused and a little suspicious. "I'm aware of that, what of it?"

"Especially in a case as simple as this one. One look at the body and it was obvious the mistress killed him. Why'd you send the police after the wife too?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "They have to do some of the work themselves, can't get used to us solving all their problems. Of course I knew it was the mistress."

Sherlock stepped closer. "This needs to stop."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think you do." Sherlock seized his wrist as Mycroft weakly tried to pull away. "Your pulse is abnormally slow. Your respiration is uneven. You look like a fucking skeleton, Mycroft!"

Finally wrestling his arm away, Mycroft seethed. "You need to leave."

"And you need to stop this stupid diet!"

"I will call security." Mycroft warned, reaching for his phone.

"Save your breath, I'm leaving." Sherlock glared. "But you know I'm right. You're dying."

"Always had a flair for the dramatic, didn't you, little brother?"

"Says the man who's killing himself in a painfully slow fashion."

Mycroft shook his head. "What do you care?"

"Just trying to save Mummy another heartbreak." Sherlock stated casually on his way out the door. But his voice wavered ever so slightly, and there was an expression behind his eyes, behind the cool indifference on his face. Was he actually worried?


	5. John Saves the Day

**Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed! It means a lot to me that you take the time to let me know how I'm doing, what you liked, what you didn't like...feedback is always much appreciated.**

 **Also, I'm really sorry I haven't updated for a long time. I've been struggling with my own eating disorder.**

* * *

Sherlock was in a mood.

He had been sulking about the flat all day, and he was currently lying on the floor, counting the cracks in the ceiling as if they held the key to some great mystery of the universe.

"Do you want to look for a case?" John casually asked for the third time that day. Generally that was the way to cure Sherlock's moodiness.

"No."

"Do you want to go get something to eat?

"No."

John sighed with exasperation. "What's wrong? I mean there's obviously something bothering you."

"I'm fine." Sherlock said flatly, still staring up at the ceiling.

John shook his head and picked up the paper, getting comfortable in his chair. "Can't say I didn't try." He muttered.

"Why do people starve themselves?" Sherlock wondered aloud, still lying on the floor.

John raised his eyebrows, lowering the newspaper. "Erm, lots of different reasons I suppose. Why?"

"Doesn't matter. Just list the most popular ones."

"To lose weight, I think would be the biggest reason."

"What if they're already thin?"

John thought for a moment. "Control issues, maybe?"

"That's it, that has to be it!" Sherlock sat straight up.

"This is about Mycroft, isn't it?" John finally put the pieces together. "Mrs. Hudson said you went to see him yesterday. Is he still on that 'extreme diet'?"

"Yes, but it makes sense now. He's always been a massive control freak."

"Well, now that you know the reason, what are you going to do about it?

Sherlock scoffed. "Nothing."

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?"

"Exactly what I said. If Mycroft wants to destroy himself, that's his poor decision. Besides, I'm sure he's got it under control. That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

John didn't respond immediately, studying Sherlock's face. He was doing his best to appear apathetic and uncaring, but Watson knew better. He knew the consulting detective arguably better than anyone, and could tell when he was truly concerned. Sherlock's lips were tight, jaw clenched. His eyes were anxious, and he couldn't stop tapping his fingers on his thigh. He was genuinely _worried._

"Do you really think he has it under control?"

"He has to. He's Mycroft. He's always been the smart one."

"What if he needs help?"

"Mycroft never needs help."

"That didn't even sound a little convincing." John chuckled.

"Oh, piss off." Sherlock said, but there was no real anger behind his words.

"Alright, I'll stop asking you about it if you're 100% sure Mycroft is okay, and doesn't need some sort of intervention."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and John was afraid he would change the subject and start moping around again. But then he stood up and folded his arms across his chest. "Right then, how does one go about staging an intervention?"

John smiled. "There you go."

* * *

 **Sorry about the short chapter, I'm still figuring out how to write the actual intervention part.**


	6. Eating Feels like Losing

Planning an intervention was harder than Sherlock had first anticipated. First of all, there were the scheduling issues. Mycroft was almost certainly busy with matters of state. So he came to the conclusion that Mycroft's assistant, Anthea, would have to be involved. No one else knew his brother's schedule.

Getting ahold of her was easy enough, simply try to call Mycroft's office for an appointment, and she was sure to pick up.

" _You have reached the office of Mycroft Holmes, this is Anthea speaking. How may I direct your call?"_

"Hello, Anthea. It's Sherlock Holmes."

" _Oh!"_ There was an awkward pause. " _Erm, let me transfer you to Mycroft."_

"Wait," Sherlock said quickly. "I was actually hoping to talk to you."

 _"Me?"_ She asked with surprise and a bit of suspicion.

"Yes, there's something I need your help with."

" _What is it?"_ More suspicion.

Sherlock lowered his voice. "Is Mycroft around?"

" _No, he's in a meeting for the next hour. But I don't see what that has to do with-"_

"He has a problem."

Anthea was quiet, listening.

"I'm sure you've noticed it; even someone of average observational skills would."

She huffed, no doubt slightly offended. " _If you're talking about his weight loss, he assured me it's under control."_

"Maybe it was at first, but don't you think it's becoming a bit excessive?"

She sighed. " _It's...it's not my place. I've already voiced my concern for him, and he was quite adamant that I not mention it again."_

"That's because he's an idiot."

There was a shocked pause, and Anthea chuckled. She wasn't used to people talking about Mycroft Holmes that way, as he was the most brilliant man she'd ever known.

"You see him every day, surely you have to agree with me. It's getting worse, isn't it?"

She hesitated. " _He'd be angry with me if I told you..."_

"He won't find out." Sherlock promised.

" _I haven't seen him eat in months. He drinks coffee all the time, though. He never does lunch meetings anymore; he told me they seem too informal. He's tired all the time. Sometimes when he stands up too fast, he stumbles, like he's about to fall over. He gets these horrible headaches..."_ Anthea's voice trembled slightly. _"I'm afraid he's dying."_ She admitted.

Christ, it was worse than he thought..."He needs help." Sherlock said earnestly.

" _I could lose my job-"_

"I'm not asking you to be involved, I just need to know his schedule for the next week. I'll make sure you don't get in trouble." He assured.

 _"...alright,"_ She finally agreed.

Thanks to Anthea, Sherlock determined that Tuesday night would be ideal. That gave him two days to figure out what the hell he was going to say...He had debated bringing John, his best friend was so much better at this. But Mycroft wouldn't open up around him. He wasn't family.

Then again, he wasn't entirely sure Mycroft would open up to him either...

* * *

Mycroft was exhausted. It had been a long Tuesday afternoon, and he was happy to be home. He walked through the door and hung up his coat. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a week, but he hadn't exercised today. He needed to run at least two miles before he allowed himself to rest.

He made his way up the stairs to his room to change into workout clothing, and found himself gripping the banister for support as the world started spinning. The dizziness had been getting worse lately.

He made it to his room, and flipped on the light, almost having a heart attack when he noticed Sherlock sitting in his favorite chair.

"Sherlock?!" What the hell are you doing here, how did you get in?"

"Hardly my first time breaking and entering, brother mine."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You probably shouldn't be admitting that."

"Your security is horrid. It's a miracle no one else has broken in. Then again, you probably wouldn't notice if they had."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Mycroft glared. "I've always been the-"

"The smart one, yes, I know." Sherlock stood. "But you're losing it."

"This is ridiculous. Get out of my house before I call the police."

"Mycroft, listen to me!" Sherlock yelled, and there was something in his voice that Mycroft hadn't heard since they were children. It was more subtle, but it brought back memories of a five-year-old Sherlock shaking under the covers, begging his big brother not to leave him alone during a thunderstorm.

Sherlock was afraid.

So Mycroft listened.

"You have to stop this. If you continue this way, you are going to die! Can't you see?!"

Mycroft swallowed hard. "I know." He said quietly.

Sherlock stepped closer. "Then why don't you stop?"

"I can't." Mycroft admitted. "Or I don't want to." He quickly corrected himself. "I don't know."

Truthfully, he had grown used to it. He'd always felt...hollow. Now there was a hollow feeling in his stomach too. Nothing could fill the void, so why even try?

"Please," Sherlock asked softly.

"I suppose I could try."

"Let me help you."

Mycroft laughed. "I don't need help."

"Oh, but I think you do. While I was waiting for you, I had a look around. There's barely any food here. Certainly not enough to survive on.

"So maybe I need to do a little shopping."

"I'll come with you."

Mycroft scowled. "That's unnecessary, I'm not a child."

"I don't care, I'm coming with you anyway. You don't have any meetings after 2:00 tomorrow, we'll go then."

"How did you know...?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Anthea is in on this, isn't she?"

"No, I broke into your office and looked at your planner." Sherlock smirked.

"Christ, this can't become a habit. You're going to get arrested one of these days, and I won't bail you out."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What have you eaten today?"

How long had it been since he'd eaten? Two days? Three? "I had a banana for breakfast, and a salad for lunch." He lied.

"You've gotten even worse at lying," Sherlock shook his head. Come on, let's see if we can find you something. He grabbed Mycroft's arm and essentially dragged him to the kitchen.

Mycroft stood there, leaning against the counter with his arms folded while Sherlock rummaged through his nearly empty cupboards.

"Ah, peanut butter. Lots of protein there, right?"

Mycroft's stomach churned. 96 calories per serving, or 8 minutes of running.

"And it looks like you've got some whole wheat bread here too."

 _81 calories. 6 minutes of running._

Sherlock spread the peanut butter on a slice of bread and handed it to Mycroft, not missing how his brother's hands were shaking slightly.

Mycroft just stared at it. He wanted it. God, how he wanted it. He was so hungry...but all the fat, the calories...he couldn't...

"I'm not leaving til you eat it." Sherlock stated.

Mycroft nibbled at the corner.

"Come on, it'll take years at that rate." Sherlock said impatiently.

Mycroft sighed, taking a bigger bite. It was delicious. The creamy peanut butter on the crunchy bread...

But he only managed a couple more bites before his stomach started protesting.

Too much.

Too soon.

Fat.

Calories.

Disgusting.

He set it down. "I'm sorry, I can't." He couldn't look Sherlock in the eyes.

His brother eyed the half-eaten piece of bread with disappointment, but luckily he didn't try to force it. "That's okay. Next time you'll eat more."

Next time. Mycroft wasn't looking forward to next time.

After months of hardly letting anything past his lips, eating felt like losing.


End file.
